


Midnight Meetings

by aqueentorattlestars



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, F/M, Post-A Court of Wings and Ruin, nesta becomes an illyrian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqueentorattlestars/pseuds/aqueentorattlestars
Summary: Illyrian!Nesta is determined to learn how to fly on her own. Until she runs into a Healed!Cassian who offers to help teach her how to fly.





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

> So this turned out longer than I originally expected… Long enough that I’m going to break it up into parts. I hope you guys enjoy!

The hand of winter was rarely gentle. By day it crooked a teasing finger, coaxing every branch and blade into believing the white to dissolve away and allow them life, spilling new light over the realm. By night, however, it was a fist, hard and cold, the stars like shards of ice, the northwestern peaks of the craggy mountain tops ghostly white in the black sky. The last winds of fall glazed the puddles of the land, before the freeze would come to seal off the liquid. 

Each long, deep breath that passed through the lurker’s lips came out in dense plumes of condensation. Dangerous icicles loomed above the mouth of the outer-edge that Nesta had been investigating, threatening to fall and puncture an innocent traveler if echoes disturbed. 

The gentle breeze of the night brought shivers down her spine, even with the warm flying leathers that were donned to keep in warmth. The leather protested to the cold in an almost inaudible squeak, and the female gritted her teeth in frustration. It was not enough that being out and about at this late of an hour would be obvious to her own hidden agenda; but to also have such trifle things such as a jacket make noise… What a pain in the ass. Perhaps it would be better if she gave up on any form of stealth and wore some obnoxiously bright colored clothes, blew sirens all around, and shouted to the top of her lungs, ‘I’m here! I’m here! Over here!’  
The moment of rage with herself passed as quickly as it had come. Leaving Nesta to acknowledge every insignificant detail of the hidden tunnel she was in; deciphering the probability of the passage being used and if so, how often, at what times, by whom… It would be easy enough to ignore the minor details as such; to recklessly use this passage that very night to accomplish her goal. But haste would not do.

With haste had come the fall of great leaders.  
With haste mistakes were made.  
With haste came failure.  
Nesta Archeron would not be haste.

The night sky was dark, curtains of black velvet fell in a blanket over Velaris, wisps of angry dark clouds drifted across the sky, as if mocking the rare warmth of the day previously. She moved like the shadow of the passing clouds above, unseen, unnoticed, even by the wind that blew around her as if she were not there at all. She crept along the ledge of the tunnel’s mouth that opened up to the outside world (a treasure that had been found after extensive late-night exploring), daringly peering over the edge in such a dark night with crumbling rocks beneath. Wind was channeled in the tunnel and creating the most frightening moans. Aside from the wind, nothing truly disturbed the silence of the ledge Nesta now knelt on. Her wings unfurled, stretching out, hesitating, before clamping back down. 

Black covered the land as a voluminous cloud placed itself in the way of the glowing moon, she rose to stand. The female turned and looked over her shoulder in paranoia of being followed. No one stood behind her. She nodded and returned to her reconnaissance one last time before giving up for the night, absorbing the plans she had conjured up in her labyrinth of a mind. Each one would later be dissected and made perfect… She could not afford a flawed plan. She would learn to fly on her own accord.

The return of Nesta through her secret tunnel was like the descent of darkness; far heavier than the footfalls of the woman herself, whose passing was unnoticed even by the small mice intent on finding a meal of scraps. Unseen as well; dark breeches on dark-stained leathers, she was as small and thin as one of the fading shadows to which she now clung. She made no sound, left no tracks there was no way to tell she was there unless one happened to be keen-sighted enough to pick her out of the darkness of the shadows in which she was wrapped. 

Or if there was a particular Illyrian Bastard awake at that hour.

He could’ve just let her be… Everyone was asleep, and therefore completely unnecessary to grant Nesta any recognition at the moment.  
But of course not. Troublesome faerie.

Irritation bloomed deep within her chest, like a morning glory sprayed with lilac spots opens up at the soft urging of the sun’s warm rays. Like a tigress on the prowl; this enigma skulked in the shadows. Waiting, watching to see if an advancement would be made by the one other soul who was wandering about the dwellings in the darkness; or if he would simply brush off her presence.

Cassian had been unable to sleep; his mind too busy with fabricating plans and strategies for the war. He had only taken a break to treat himself to coffee. It was on his way back from the kitchens that he had noticed a slight movement. Hazel eyes traced the motion, outlining the dark-disguised curves of a woman that he knew well. A shifting shadow, her hair fluttering behind her – dare he say it, beautiful. It could only be her. What she was doing awake at this hour, Cauldron only knew.

“Nesta.” The barest whisper, a haze of fog issuing from his lips, lost in the night.

Black, blacker, blackest.  
But he knew her to be there. Even if she wanted to pretend otherwise.  
“Nesta.” He spoke louder. Silence, waiting on a woman.  
Her nostrils flared in irritation. Could he not just leave her be? Of course not.

From the comforting blanket of shadow, she unwrapped herself and stepped into the faint light—standing before the army commander, she finally spoke, “Unable to sleep, Commander?”

Ah.  
Making herself the questioner, instead of the questioned.  
She came quietly, a cat on the prowl, invisible to everyone, everything… But not him. Cassian watched her approach, the slinking steps, defiant demeanor, a child caught with her hand dipped in the honey jar. He tilted the mug to his lips as he perused her face, the mysterious lines that formed a beautiful expression. Beautiful, but angry. Frustrated? Or perhaps it was so late that his imagination had run away with him. The coffee steamed into his mouth, a gasp of delight from his tongue at the absolute bitterness, but smoothness, of the drink. It burned as it slid down his throat, teasing, hot, and he swallowed, feeling the rush of warmth through his very soul as the drink penetrated. Ah, the wonders of good coffee.

Cassian raised his brows as Nesta struck first—taking command of the conversation before it ever begun. He chuckled under his breath, more the soft swish of air from his lips, joining its fellows in the night. “I was working, Nesta, and craving some decent coffee. But the question begs what are you doing awake at this hour? And in such an interesting outfit. Black suits you. And those boots… Mm.” His voice was deep, scratchy, the sound of an unused throat, silent nocturnia. He raised the mug as an accompanying gesture, his eyes drawn again to her wings; hidden awe buried deep. 

And what was she doing? Unable to sleep herself, perhaps taking a walk to ease her mind. The curiosity festered. What was she doing?

The intrigue of it all was already awakening dulled senses that had almost been lost to the lull of sleep. Before him stood Nesta, proud, cunning, and strong. The female had always fascinated him. His eyes rested again on Nesta, recaptured from the dark of night and drawn to the distracting contrast of her skin. Watching the lips, waiting for speech.  
Nesta’s eyes cut like daggers and she answered with a broad response; “Enjoying a walk in the previous silence.” A lie it was not; after all, she had been walking. Just not aimlessly. A brittle smile was given to throw off the frustrated expression, the golden brown-haired woman doing well to avoid detection of her true intent that night. 

Smoothly Nesta transitioned into a turn of topic, the actress glancing towards the direction of the Kitchens, “I’m parched… And haven’t had a glass of wine for a week now. Care to make another trip to the kitchens?”  
Cassian saw through her lie and already a slow, broad grin was pulling in his lips while he fanned his wings and clasped them back down again, “Bullshit. The kitchens are in the absolute opposite direction. So let’s cut to the heart of it; what were you doing, Nesta? Looking for me? For you, I can be submissive.” Quiet steps led him closer to where she stood and he grinned down at the fuming Archeron sister, “So? What were you doing, Nesta?”  
Seething. She was absolutely seething as her glare fixated on Cassian—the last thing she needed was for him to interfere with her goal. The wind was calling her name; beckoning her and singing the most beautiful of love songs… It needed her to taste its wildness. Taste its freedom. It dared her to fly. If only.. If only she could. If only she could learn.

It was why she had stole away in the dead hours of the night to find places to practice on her own, away from the laughing eyes. 

One look at Cassian and she knew there was no way to get around him. No way to avoid withholding the truth. 

“Learning how to fly,” she said coolly, dismissively as if it were nothing more than dressing herself for the day.  
Surprise reared up in Cassian. He blinked, once, twice, three times—questioning if he had heard her correctly. Nesta Archeron… Had been trying to teach herself how to fly. Concern tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought of her trying… And failing. Falling to her death. Unacceptable. “Then you need a teacher,” he said, leaving no room for argument, “It’s too dangerous to do on your own. I admire your courage, admire your tenacity; but in this… You need my help, Nesta. Flying is more than just flapping wings and taking off.”

Her full lips were pursed into a thin line. He was right. And she would never admit that.  
Instead, she replied, “Tomorrow night. The same hour.” The Made-Illyrian female walked away without waiting for an answer, expecting the commander. 

Cassian watched her go. A smile touching his eyes.  
So would begin the first of many midnight meetings.


	2. First Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta takes to the skies for the first time. With or without Cassian.

The council room emptied slowly – too slowly for his liking. He remained in his chair, leaning back, hands gripping the leather armrests in poorly disguised agitation, watching as Rhysand and Morrigan continued to bicker over the discussion. His voice was slow, methodic, level– hers was a winding contrast, rising in octaves and volume even as she moved across the room. The High Lord and the Third In Command. Cassian’s eyebrows remained raised as he watched them both exit without further discord. Well, there was something to be said for the fact that the pair had not gone into an all-out brawl. As they moseyed through the door, the heat dissipated, and Cassian breathed a quiet prayer of thanks. He did not have the will to deal with their shit this night.

  
Chaotic days were upon them. While the War was over, there was still so much to be done. Cities to be rebuilt, minds and bodies to be healed, and the worrisome silence that permeated across the sea, eluding even Azriel’s finest attempts at infiltration. The Court of Nightmares was pushing their boundaries. Which had been the item of discourse between Mor and Rhys that had prolonged the meeting for so long. A wound that was still raw and bleeding for Morrigan, he knew.  Cassian snorted again, an action he’d often committed through the last hour as the meeting had been a verbal duel between the two silver-tongued High Fae.

  
He leaned back in his chair, a heavy sigh hovering on his lips as one by one he watched the council room deplete itself of occupants. Feyre leaving to go check on Rhys; Azriel following those shadows of his, no doubt going to console Morrigan in her festering anger; and Amren… Amren remained waiting and watching him.

  
To which he offered the tiny ancient one a vexing grin, “Politics are dull. Dull, frustrating. Nonsensical. Should be thrown out – to hell with order, Anarchy all the way!”  
  
Amren narrowed her eyes to mere slits as she sipped at the goblet of wine, “I’ll be sure to let Rhys know that you want to throw him off the throne.”  
  
Cassian waggled his eyebrows, carefully pushing the right buttons to prod Amren into leaving of her own free will, “Oh, no. I’ll deny it. Say that the idea stemmed from you—you who listens to no one and nothing. I’d be thrilled to see how that conversation goes.”  
  
The firedrake snorted slightly, and a smile twitched onto her lips. It faded almost as quickly as it had come, but it was there nonetheless. A momentary presence, for fractions of a second – but there. A jeweled finger was lifted in a rude gesture before Amren abandoned the room as well.   
  
The council room was empty and the room was engulfed in silence. The male waited several minutes longer before he made motion to leave; waiting to ensure the halls were truly absent of spectators.   
  
A certain Archeron sister would have his balls nailed to the wall if he allowed someone the opportunity to discover what they were up to.   
   
Standing, he stretched—large wings flaring behind him—before sauntering off down the winding corridors of the House of Wind.  Cassian had plenty of time to make it to the rendezvous point on time. Yet, he took his time. Stopped to flirt with a kitchen maid and swindle her out of a bottle of Rhysand’s finer wines before he finally made his way to the hidden corridor Nesta had found.  
   
He was late. That Cauldron-Cursed Illyrian Bastard was late.  
Nesta paced impatiently up and down the ledge; eyes chancing a glance over the edge, daring herself to take the leap. Daring herself to let the wind be her teacher. No one would take the time to teach her—she was the bitch, the harpy, the anomaly. Her sisters had become High Fae. And she? Illyrian. She supposed it suited her; for her personality was one of brutality, cruelty, wickedness. A cruel, wicked thing. Except no one used those words as a term of endearment for Nesta Archeron.

 Or… Mayhap she had been given wings to reflect her heart’s desire; to travel, to learn, to roam and make something of herself. She had stolen something from the Cauldron that ill-fated day but, perhaps in turn, the Cauldron had taken something from her as well. Looked inside and found her; found something inside her she had not yet admitted to.  
  
And made her in this likeness because of it. 

“Damn it all,” she said through clenched teeth.

She was Nesta Archeron and she would not rely on anyone again.  
  
The decision had been made and she retreated from the ledge to take some thirty steps back into the interior of the cave. The corded muscles in her back flexed, tightening her core, as she flared and retracted her wings several times. Sheer determination fixated her gaze down the long hall and out towards the mouth of the ledge into the starlit sky. The stars were calling and she must answer. The wind gave voice to the sweetest of songs, lulling the Illyrian into its siren song. No more waiting. No more hoping for someone that would not come.  
  
She would fly. Or she would die.  
There was no alternative.

Cassian had arrived thirty minutes past the promised time. He’d been of the mind to teach Nesta a lesson in patience—to not demand things from the Commander—and because he thoroughly enjoyed the look of her flushed cheeks when he riled her up. How could someone so cold be so… devastatingly beautiful? Cauldron if he knew, but what he did know was that he would take every chance he had to be around the living blade of a female.

Silent as death, he waited in the shadows and watched as Nesta paced in her annoyance. Watched as all out rage flickered in those eyes and then—for a moment—a flash of something more, something vulnerable as she looked to those skies that sung to his own soul.

  
His eyes roved over her face –cold, determined, her eyes set and foxish in their narrowed depths. A slender figure, stern, firm, potent. She stood haloed by the moon; dark, brooding, terrific in her power.   
  
Cassian had opened his mouth to speak, planning to allow his voice to cut the silence easily, a knife through butter – comforting, but hypnotic, a serpent seducing its prey. The opportunity had not been granted.

With horror, hazel eyes watched as Nesta took off in a sprint—faster than he could reach her, faster than he could chase her down. Those damned long legs, sleek and swift as a gazelle. Legs he had dreamt of kissing from ankle to thigh—he now cursed their existence as they flung the female closer to the edge of the cave. Her wings ready to maneuver as she hurled herself.  
  
Closer, closer, closer she approached.

His roar strangled in his throat as he felt his stomach drop. Centuries of battle and war and this is what had caused him the greatest fear. He was running towards her, but his wings were too large for the hall. Cassian did not register the pain as clawed ends were scraped raw by the rocky interior of the walls.   
  
Too late.  
  
Nesta had jumped; out of sight and, no doubt, careening to a painful death on the craggy rocks below.  
  
Words finally filled his throat as Cassian made it to the edge, “NESTA!”  
Mother’s Tits, he couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t be the one to collect her broken body and bring it before her sisters. Sisters who had already lost too much; humanity, a father, a home, and now a sister? He’d willingly allow Amren to rip his wings off, let Feyre burn him from the inside out and heal him just to do it all over again. Again and again and again before she finally decided she had enough and ended him permanently.

  
Gods… What had he done? What had he done?  _What had he done?_   

Powerful legs shot him into the air and he  closed his wings, gaining momentum as he chased down Nesta; doing his best to speed towards the female before she plummeted to the ground.  
  
He expected to find her careening out of control.  
Expected to find her screaming, wings snapping and bones breaking as wind tore ligaments and muscles of a novice flyer.

But this was Nesta Archeron.  
She defied all expectations out of spite.

  
Pure fury had kept her aloft. Her wings pounding, trying to navigate currents she had no knowledge of. It was not beautiful, but… She was hanging on. The exhaustion was evident as she began to falter; dropping rapidly in the sky while she fought tooth, nail, and claw to meet those stars above.  
  
Cassian wasted no time and shot to Nesta, catching her just as she began to lose all control. “Close your fucking wings!” he shouted over the roar of the wind. With some struggle, she clamped them closed and Cassian held her slight frame to his chest as he carried them both back to the ledge. Unceremoniously, he dumped Nesta onto the ground.  
  
Relief of her safety gave way to outright  _rage_  as Cas turned on the female, not sparing her from the wrath in his yell, “What the  _fuck_  were you doing?! You could have fucking KILLED yourself! You stupid, hateful female—do you know what that would have done to your sisters? Do you even  _care_  what it would have done to them?! Or are you so fucking selfish that you didn’t even consider anyone but yourself?”

Crimson coated his vision when Nesta did not respond to him, did not even bother to glance at him. She sat, looking out towards that sky that had almost ended her. Infuriated by her outright impudence in ignoring him, Cassian knelt down in front of her. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and he shook her, “Do you fucking hear me? I thought I lost you, Nesta!!! You can’t fucking do that to me!”

  
“I flew,” she said, a bare whisper and completely unfazed by Cassian’s words. A smile was pinned onto her full, tempting lips. The laugh that followed was incredulous and pure, “I flew. I actually flew. I did it.”  
  
His anger dissipated in a matter of seconds when he saw the openness on her face. An expression that he doubted anyone had ever seen. A sigh was loosed from his lips as worried eyes studied her face, wings, and body, “Yes. Yes, you did.”

Cassian reached out a hand, cupping Nesta’s chin in it, gentler this time in his reproach, “Nesta… What you did… Was insane. Absolutely insane. You could have  _died_  because you don’t know what the hell you are doing. What were you  _thinking?”_

The frigid exterior was back in place and Nesta, weakened by the effort it took to fly for those few seconds, still managed to jerk away from Cassian’s touch, “You were late. You weren’t going to come. So I was going to teach myself.”

Guilt twined its shapeless fingers around his heart and the Lord of Bloodshed bowed his head, unable to deny the accusation in that scowl, “I.. I am sorry, Nes. I swear to you, Nesta Archeron, it will not happen again… But,  _shit_ , you have to swear you’ll never do something as stupid as that again.”

 “I’m going to fly,” she said flatly, making no promise.

“Yes—it might be the death of me, but you’ll fly Nesta Archeron. You’ll fly.”

And she would.

She would learn to fly and fly far away until her wings could carry her no more. And there she would create a new life.


	3. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian is extremely late to a training session. Nesta confronts him about it. Words are shared between the two that result in a horrible mistake on Cassian's part.

Three months. It had been three bloody months and she still was no closer to flying than the night he had found her out on that edge alone, daring the skies to swallow her whole.   
  
Three months of cancelled sessions and blatant refusals to speak to her. On the occasion they did meet at the rendezvous point, Cassian had not offered much in the way of conversation. It had been the same exercises over and over; lift her wings, flare, move this wing here, tighten your core, snap shut, open, move, tighten the core, open, move. The same exercise regime that Nesta tackled with a tenacity that had not been there before.   
  
Each morning and evening, Nesta had put herself through the same exercises that Cassian had given her on their third session. Her dedication could not be questioned; Nesta _wanted to fly._ She wanted to go chase the stars in the quiet darkness that the night sky offered. Those stars… They called to her. A beacon in an otherwise shadowy world. The eldest Archeron sister was a moth to a flame when it came to the windsong she heard.

It tugged at her heart—pulling the Illyrian-made female towards the horizon line. Adventure was calling. And she must answer… Mayhap somewhere beyond those mountains, beyond these seas, beyond the games that these Courts played… Mayhap there was a place she could call _home_.    
  
If the overgrown bat ever had the notion to deem her with his presence again.

Restlessness settled over Nesta as she waited. An hour past midnight, Cassian still had not shown… Concern nibbled at the edges of Nesta’s mind, but still she stayed. Taking a seat on the edge of the, her legs dangled carelessly. As the minute ticked by, Nesta allowed herself to become lost in the way the clouds drifted over the dark sky. Iron gray against a stunning obsidian, spattered with twinkling flecks of silver and white. Lost. She could become utterly and completely lost in those skies.    
  
It was not enough to just _see_ this. She wanted, no _needed_ to be a dancer amongst that stage. The music grew louder with each day; that tug ever stronger each time she looked up to the heavens. Nesta belonged amongst the clouds. Where she could be alone and away from all else.

It was in this state that she felt strongest; alone and able to sift through her private thoughts, without others to distract or annoy her.    
  
Anti-social, perhaps. But a lesson had been hard-learned in her youth, and has been instilled in her through adulthood; no one is to be trusted enough to allow your guard down. No one. For in the end, they all prove themselves liars and cowards. Despite however much love they proclaim to have for you— the end is always the same. Family, friends, and enemies all fell into the same category of ends. There is pain, there is sorrow, there is hate, there is rage, and most of all; there is loneliness.  
  
It has been in the mind of the Made-Illyrian to defeat this opposition, by simply skipping a number of steps and emotions and delve deep into the final outcome of it all; isolation. When one is in solitude, there are no petty arguments to deter you away from goals that you have created. Nor is there the chance of being far too lost in your own emotions to lose sight of the destination, or to be taken advantage of by a less than noble person.   
  
Why would anyone deny her this?   
They wanted her gone. They wanted the harpy out of the way; her usefulness had run dry after the war. Now she was just a figure taking up space in the House of Wind.

Why would Cassian continue to push off these lessons?   
  
Hours passed, and still she waited. A fast-flickering hope was all that kept Nesta there. A hope for a future that was hers. The moon waned on—the cold hour of three approaching before Cassian appeared.

He had forgotten. Had forgotten the promise he made that night to Nesta a week ago— a night out at Rita’s with Mor and Az had taken up the forefront of his mind for that night. It had been months since the three of them had visited their favored hangout. And a night of drinking and dancing had been in order at the progress they had made in the rebuilding of Velaris.

Tipsy and relaxed, the trio had begun to make their return back home. In passing, he had caught a whiff of perfume that reminded him of the scent that clung to Nesta… And a sinking feeling settled into his stomach.   
  
“ ** _Fuck_** ,” Cassian growled at in realization of what he had forgotten about.   
  
Mor and Azriel turned to look at their friend, confusion riddling their faces. Mor was the first to speak, teasing, “Awwww, what is it Cassie? Still sad that that female turned you down? Cas, there’s _plenty_ more opportunities. It’d be a good idea to start thinking of some other poems, though.”

He threw them a vulgar gesture before taking to the skies in one powerful leap. He flew like a madman—inhibitions thrown to the wind with the alcohol that still warmed his gut. Cauldron damn him—would she even still be waiting? It was verging near four in the morning when they left Rita’s.

Surely, she had given up after twenty minutes and gone to bed… Surely.   
  
But this was Nesta Archeron.   
She did not give up easily.

Guilt ate at Cassian when he saw the shadowy figure sitting atop the ledge. An unmoving statue crafted by a master sculptor looking out upon the sky for a story that was not yet written.

An apology was on his lips the moment he landed, “Nesta, I—”

“Where were you?” she asked, a tone laced with deadly calm.

“Nesta, I’m sorry—”  
  
“You’re sorry? You’re _sorry?_ ” she asked, not standing as she looked out over the city of starlight. A city that was not her own. At last, Nesta rose to stand and turned that steely gaze onto the male that loomed over her, “An apology and everything is supposed to magically be better? I’m not fucking stupid, Cassian. I know what the hells you’ve been doing for these months. You’re a _bastard_ for continuing to drag me along this experiment of yours.” The male tried to cut in, but she gave no room for his argument while Nesta raged on, “Do you get off on it, Cassian? Do you get off on having me depend on you for something? You _PROMISED_ me that I would fly! It’s been three months of the _same damned_ thing on the nights you actually bother to come.” She intended to hurt him. Intended to cut him, to infuriate him. And it was with that in mind that Nesta let the words fly from her mouth without hesitation, “Or are you wanting payment for your time? If I let you fuck me, you’ll finally teach me? You’re no better than Tomas.”

The last sentence that dripped from her perfect mouth was a dagger to Cassian’s heart. Hurt flashed in his eyes. A flash of lightning followed by the rolling thunder of anger. He had drank too much—he knew it. He was not as in control as he should be; did not have a hold on that temper. Dangerous. He was in a very, very dangerous state to be crossing words with the likes of Nesta. It was too late to back down, too late to  fly off.

He had invited war with Nesta the moment he had tried to prolong their lessons.

Truthfully, he had every intention of teaching her to fly-- with more bullshit lessons that let him be around her longer. Bullshit in that he was trying to stave off her taking to the skies for as long as possible. Selfish. It was so damned selfish of him and he knew it; but Cassian knew in his heart the moment that Nesta took to the skies on her own… She would be gone. Gone to follow where the wind called her… He _wanted_ that for her; but was not prepared yet to let her go. Nesta who burned him. Who had protected him with her own body. Nesta who was an infinitely complex mystery.

Love. He loved her with every fiber of his being.  
Soon… Soon she would leave him. Possibly for good.   
And he had to let her.

A sober Cassian would have been more rational, more delicate with the situation. Would have used common sense where liquid courage used foolishness. He snarled, boiling at being put in the ranks of Tomas, “No, Nesta. I’m not going to make you do a damned thing. Why would I _want_ to stick my cock inside you? You want to fly? Then fine. I’ll fucking teach you how to fly.”  
  
Anger was the only way he was able to let her go. Using cutting words to sever the friendship that they had formed—she wanted out of the Night Court. She wanted far away from Prythian. He would not be the reason she was forced to stay and lead such a miserable life here.

“Then teach me,” she said bitterly, unbending in her will.   
  
He acted without warning. Taking Nesta in his arms, minding her wings and gruffly barking, “Don’t move. We’re taking a field trip for lessons tonight.” Carefully, he took to the skies with her in his arms.

Flying was the worst addiction. The wind rushing over your body was exhilarating, its cool fingers touching every fiber of her being to create a sensation of bliss. While her body was thrumming with excitement, the female’s mind was fully alert to every minuscule detail of everything below them in an attempt to figure out where Cas was taking her. A rosy hue settled on her cheeks with the glee of flight and the adrenaline that was pumping through her veins for both this triumphant soaring. In the heights of the sky, she was fully alive. 

Thank goodness, he reflected, that her hair was plaited in a long braid. He could imagine the havoc of her brassy mane whipping across his face in the heavy crossbreezes. The scent blowing back off her skin was intoxicating enough – he didn’t need his face buried in her hair, as well. They approached within the hour, the lake reflecting the stars above. The water would break her fall should she falter.   
  
Nesta wanted to learn to fly? Cauldron boil him, he was going to teach her the way he learned. Fly or float. The alcohol muddled his brain, muddled the memory of the phobia that broke Nesta’s stern resolve.

  
He swept lower, a fell bullet on the wind, tucking his wings slightly as they dropped down closer to the water.  
  
“You want to fly, Nesta?” He asked, not noticing the way she gripped so tightly onto his arms when they drifted closer to the water, “So fly.”  
  
He dropped her out of his arms without warning; hovering while he watched her flap furiously, grappling to find the thermals that she could glide on.  
  
The smile faded when he heard a scream.  
A scream of sheer terror.   
A scream of a thousand men dying on a battlefield.  
A scream of betrayal.  
Nesta’s scream.  
  
The scream ended with loud splashing.   
A single hand reached out above the water—not one of damnation as it had been for the King of Hybern… But an outstretched, desperate plea for help.

Every promise he had made… Broken in a matter of seconds.  
  
Nesta. Nesta _. Nesta._  
He couldn’t lose her.

  
  


 

 

  



	4. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta falls into the lake after Cassian drops her. She's forced to revisit the memories she has suppressed from her time in the Cauldron.

A last, desperate breath was taken before her head submerged.  Death was not as frightening as she had once believed. It was a peaceful quiet—a thick blanket being drawn up over her shoulders. She opened her eyes, and the world became an illusionist’s heaven, drifting and swaying before her very eyes. Stars glittered in radiant show; silver and white twinkling in and out.  In Nesta’s terror, a thought calmly slipped through as she saw the night sky through a kaleidoscope lens: _The Night Court truly was beautiful._

As the thought left, the fae’s hand slipped beneath the surface.   
  
The weight of the leathers and wings pulled Nesta down— faster, faster, faster.

She sank, and her hair billowed out around her in the easy caress, blowing around, playful, waving. So in contrast to the doom that clenched her heart.  For a moment, it was a watery wonderland of dancing lights. A bubble escaped her lips and shot to the surface, lingering in the open air for but a moment before it, too, became one of the mass. Reality returned in forceful entrance of freezing cold and lungs aflame with the icy water that filled nose and mouth.

The stars faded and darkness encompassed her. Death lost its beauty as she was returned back to the belly of the Cauldron; back to that ageless hell. Back to a place where time did not exist and life held no sway.

Trapped beneath the calm surface of the lake… Nesta lost sense of reality.   
Consciousness slipped from the defiant one while terror crippled her. She had been returned to the Cauldron and, this time, there was no escape. Betrayed by the one who had promised to protect.   
  
Light could not penetrate the obsidian water. There she was blind, deaf and mute. Caged between life and death, a limbo that was the Cauldron’s playground.

In the Cauldron, a soul was stripped bare. It saw the heart and gifted what it needed.  
  
Elain had been given sight—for she had seen only the pretty flowers in her garden before. Beloved by the Cauldron, the high honor of being a Seer was granted to the fawn. Elain needed to see beyond the roses and lilacs; needed to see her great purpose in the tapestry of life.  

The queens had entered willingly. Their greed and ambition corrupted their hearts. Once upon a time, there had been goodness and beauty in their souls… But power had blackened and tarnished. The Cauldron saw and judged accordingly. Unworthy. Weak. Corrupt. Not creatures worthy of its gifts. Better to put them out of their miserable existence.

Wings had been its greatest gift to Nesta Archeron. It looked deep and saw the spirit bolted down under the layers of titanium. The Cauldron saw the wildness within; crooked a teasing finger, daring her to give in. She could master the skies, soar above the ones who would think to cage her. Nesta would belong to no court—she would be the keeper of her own fate. She would be freedom’s favored child, a beacon of liberation. If she dared to jump, if she dared to take the risk. Fall or Fly. The choice was hers and hers alone—but the reward would be the ointment her soul needed.

It had not been enough.

 Wings would not kill the King of Hybern. Wings would not allow her to protect Elain. Wings were just a novel decoration for a female that thirsted for vengeance.

The Cauldron had Made her Illyrian—but _she_ had taken something more. A thief in the night, she had stolen more than the wings it offered her.

Nesta had done her best to suppress the memories of the Cauldron. She had refused to speak of it… How could one begin to reveal the cruel discoveries made in that ageless hell?   
  
She had done well in burying the horrors; clamped down the bleeding wounds within and blocked out the nightmares that snarled like rabid dogs. Nesta had believed herself to be fine, to have conquered those demons.  
  
Until tonight. Until the memories began rushing at her with the full force of a raging stampede as her body sunk to the bottom of the lake.  She was forced to relive the night her heart stopped beating in a realm where laws of nature did not exist…

_Guards had forced her down into the opened maw of the cauldron. The water had been ice at first, seeping down into her very bones the way the first frosted night of winter did. It poked and prodded, penetrated until the magical chill had laced its icy fingers into her heart. There it clutched, squeezed tighter and tighter until her heart gave out._

_It needed her to die. Needed the lifeforce of Prythian to flee from Nesta before it could begin to assess its new toy._

_Fire followed next. An inferno that wrapped Nesta in a blanket of gold, orange, and white. It burned away her clothes, burned away the imperfections, and nestled in between her breasts. The fire balled itself together, defied logic and pushed itself into her chest. It massaged her heart to life and chased away the chill of death._  
  
A phoenix from the ashes, she rose from those flames. Fire danced around her, sprouting from her shoulders in a fiery set of wings. They were weightless here, as if they had always been there. The fire illuminated her path and acted as a guide while it tried to guide her back to the surface. Wings had been her gift, but Nesta would not leave. Not yet. If she was fast, if she was stealthy, if she was clever enough… She could take more. An edge to win the war with. Turning her back on the comforting fire, Nesta delved ever deeper into the chasm of darkness. 

_She walked for what seemed like hours until she was led to a hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was a wall lined with three doors. And they called to her—daring the eldest Archeron daughter to make an appearance._  
  
Determination set her jaw and Nesta approached the first of the doors that the firelight surrounded. Her first test? Was it even a test? Nothing made sense in this reality. 

_Nesta reached out to touch the handle, but the door opened on its own._

_Inside sat a High Fae—stunning in her beauty. Red hair shone in the false moonlight, elegantly braided and woven in with a gilded crown. Immediately, Nesta was sat on edge—High Fae were not to be trusted. And this one, for all her lovely charm and beauty, oozed out… Wrongness. The High Fae’s eyes glittered with discord while she stared Nesta down._

_“Ah, another Archeron?” the Fae’s voice rippled across the empty room, “You hardly seem as fun as Feyre.”_  
  
Her blood ran cold. She knew who this Fae was without needing to hear her name.  
Amarantha. 

_Her fists balled together, but she did not move._

_The fallen general persisted, baiting for a reaction as she drawled, “You’re the eldest, aren’t you? Fancy yourself a queen—but where’s your crown?” A cold laugh echoed around Nesta, “You were the queen that should have been. Instead, it’s Feyre that took the crown. You could have what you wanted, Nesta—you could have it all. Kill Feyre. Kill Rhysand. Give yourself to Hybern.”_

_With a flick of her wrist, Amarantha drew an image in the flames that curled around Nesta’s feet. It was her, Nesta, ruling over all the lands—proud, powerful, and cunning._

_Wordlessly, Nesta turned to the door—leaving Amarantha cackling behind her._  
This was not the future she wanted.  
She had no desire to rule; no desire to be a queen.   
She was not to be a queen—but an assassin.  
She needed something more than a crown to kill a king.   
  
Nesta could hear the scuffling and snuffling of death hounds searching for her—the one that eluded the Cauldron.   
  
Swiftly, she slipped into another door.   
It contained within it a soul more frightening than Amarantha…   
  
The face she saw was not that of a fae.   
Not a king, not a queen.  
Human.   
A woman with golden brown hair and beautiful eyes.   
Her mother.  

_The Lady Archeron looked to Nesta, a cold frown tacked into place on an otherwise lovely face. The expression was one of utter contempt, loathing towards a daughter that had consistently failed to meet her expectations.  
It was a lesson Nesta had learned early on in childhood; just because someone gave birth to you… Did not make them a mother. The woman sitting in front of her was vain, distant, and harsh. _

_The lady had depraved her of affection. Instead of love and comfort, she had been given criticism and disapproval. She had taken on the brunt of her mother’s wrath to protect Elain and Feyre. It was the only way she could show her love to the two younger sisters; by drawing away their mother’s eyes from them and letting the lady focus only on Nesta’s flaws._

_She allowed herself to be picked apart day in and day out. Joy and warmth left Nesta with each lashing her mother gave. Once… She had been a smiling, laughing toddler who found beauty in all things. Who had teetered after her mother on wobbly legs. Only to have the door shut in front of her while the Archeron matron went off to enjoy a ball with her doting husband._

_Nesta learned to survive without a mother’s love._  
  


_Even now, in the Cauldron… Her mother only looked at her with a pretty sneer, “Look what you let happen. Feyre, Elain… Fae. Your father a fool. And what of you, Nesta? Unwed, without prospects… You spend your time with a nose in a book?”  
  
The muscle in her jaw feathered as Nesta stood at attention and listened to the harsh truths tumble out, “You let our family come to ruin while you lusted after what? Made up characters? Our family failed because you did _ nothing _Nesta. It should have been_ you _protecting Elain and Feyre. You should have married. I don’t care if you had to be some sops broodmare, you should have done it and cared for your sisters. I thought I taught you better; marry so you can be provided for.” Disappointment riddled the lady’s face as she shook her head, “For as clever as you think you are, you’re the stupidest of the three Nesta. You learned nothing from me.”_  
  
Her claws dug deep into Nesta’s skin, emotion welling up within the woman. Her voice quavered as Nesta braved a question, “Did you ever love me?”

_The lady turned her back on Nesta, looking out the window of the room._  
  
Her silence was answer enough.   
  
She would not find help in this room.   
  
Nesta left the room and left what remained of her hope at the feet of her mother.   
  
Forward was the only option left. She could only move forward in the Cauldron; her past would offer no help to the mission she had made for herself. 

_Nesta stole silently into the final room. This time, a male lingered. An ugly scar marred his handsome features; he had an eye missing, his tawny skin glowed brightly as her flames reached out towards him. Something tugged at Nesta—an invisible rope that tried to reel her in closer and closer to the quiet Fae who looked to her with such… Sadness.  
  
As if his heart had been broken over and over and over again.   
  
Minutes passed as they stared at each other. It was Nesta who moved first. Bare before him, she took quiet, certain steps to the Fae who remained slumped against the wall. His one good eye watched as Nesta drew closer. When she neared, she noticed more wicked scars that littered his skin. A hard life. Silently, she reached out to touch his cheek. The pad of her thumb brushed over the scar under his eye.   
  
The High Fae sucked in a deep breath, not having ever been touched like this before.   
  
“I… I know you,” Nesta whispered quietly, strings of her soul trying to thread with the male.   
  
The male leaned his cheek into her palm, aching for the touch of the Illyrian-Made female. He felt his essence reaching out towards her, wanting to knot together with the threads that sought him out. A connection unlike any other. A bond stronger than anything in the world.   
  
“I can’t,” he choked out, pulling away from the female.   
  
A mating bond could not be made. Could not be accepted.  
Not when he was already dead, but stuck in the limbo that was the Cauldron.   
  
Startled, Nesta took a step back.  Her mouth was agape, struggling to find the words. She could not stop it, could not stop the way those threads slithered and chased after the male. Her soul _ demanded _to be with his. A desperate, pleading cry to be wrapped in his arms. Covered in his scent. She wanted him to know every part of her; know her deepest, darkest secrets. Wanted to be in his life.  
  
“Please,” she tried again, kneeling down in front of him. Her eyes studied his face, the delicate curve of his ears. And the look in his eye… Utter desolation. It was the look of a male that had hoped once. That had sacrificed his life in the belief that greater good would come of it. Nesta moved to put a hand on his knee, wanting to touch and be near. She was a moth to a flame, “Please… Please. I… I can’t stop this. I don’t want to stop it.” What even was _ it? _What was her heart doing? What was this magic that tried to weave its way over towards the male crouched there?_  
  
“No,” the baritone said again, pain lacing through his chest as he ignored the voice nudging him towards the woman-turned-fae. Centuries he had waited for her… It was centuries too late, though.   
  
The dead could not love the living.  
The living would die loving the dead.   
It was not time. Not time for her to die, to remain in this eternal abyss of nothingness. He would watch her, though, watch her through the cracks and crevices the Cauldron offered. 

_“Why?” Nesta demanded, unable to understand the mass of feelings that writhed in her chest._

_“You can’t waste your life loving the dead,” he answered._

_“Who are you?”_

_He winced at her question, a war raging within on if he should answer or not._  
He had served his purpose in life.   
Had forfeited his life to her sister that fateful even in the frozen forest.   
  
“Andras,” spoke the male, watching as realization dawned on Nesta’s face while the Cauldron revealed all to her. How he had given his life to give his High Lord the chance. How it had been Feyre who killed him. How it was his pelt she had wanted coin for. Nausea washed over Nesta, her hands shaking while she looked at Andras.   
  
Mouth was opened to utter noise, but no sound came out. What could she say to the male who had been her mate? When she had vied to sell his pelt so that she may get a new pair of boots?   
She deserved whatever fate held for her in the future. 

_He broke the silence for her as he reached out to hold her hand in his. A callused thumb brushed over the soft skin, committing to memory as much of her as he could in the few short moments they had together. Wise and crafty, he spoke quickly—it was important, Mother’s Tits, it was important that she listen—“You cannot stay here, Nesta. The Cauldron gives life and takes it. But here? Here it keeps its treasures, hoarding us for its own amusement. We are dead—yet not dead. And the longer you stay, the longer you risk being stuck in here. Time had no hold here. There is no such thing as hours, days, or years.” He shook his head, stopping her from asking questions, “Please, just listen. You came here seeking for something. Something more than what has already been given. I know. I saw you before you came. Heard your thoughts… I can’t explain how or why, but I did. And… Nesta, listen.”  
  
Andras cupped her face in his hands, studying the same eyes that had ended his life, “You’re playing a dangerous game. I will help you. You must be strong. You must be smart, lass… And you must be quick. When I tell you to run… Don’t look back, just _ run _.” He pressed a kiss to her lips, allowing the threads of a bond to snare together. He kissed her hard, the essence of Andras fading into every fiber of her being. His magic ebbed and flowed, hiding within her. It was not purely his magic; but the Cauldron’s, too. Death had claimed him and Death resided in Andras. Whatever he bestowed to Nesta… Would remain forever. She would be marked by Death._  
  
Andras stumbled back from the kiss, looking to Nesta as he struggled for breath, “You won’t be alone, Nesta. You’ll always be loved.”   
  
At the time, Nesta had thought he meant that he would love her… Another question left unasked and unanswered when Andras growled out to her, staring at the door, “Run.”   
  
Nesta had done as he said. She ran as fast as her legs could take her; wings struggling behind her as she left her mate behind to rot in the belly of the Cauldron.   
  
His magic had cocooned itself around her and guided Nesta to be a tool to help end the war on Hybern. No one had known of her encounters—she had never admitted that she had met her mate. Too much had transpired for Nesta to even begin to give voice to the troubles that rippled through her.

She was about to be returned to him, though. The depths of the lake were about to give her over back to Andras in afterlife. Perhaps she should thank Cassian for this betrayal. For dropping her into the waters to die.   


Nesta was ready to let go and slip into the oblivion of death. Yet, in the bottom of the lake… A vision did appear.  
  
The Illyrian female was young. Pretty, but not overly so; a charming sort of beauty… Her wings, though… Clipped. Crippled from exploring the night skies. Nesta frowned. Those eyes… She had seen those eyes before. A pristine hue of hazel. Cassian’s eyes.   
  
“Nesta,” the vision spoke, hands cracked from years of abuse, “Fight it, Nesta… Andras is not your mate. In another time, another future… He might have been. But he is not now. If you die—you’re a coward. You know it in your heart, girl. Death is not your master. Andras is not your mate. _Fight it, Nesta.”_  


How _dare_ she. Anger fueled Nesta on—a fury ready to lay waste upon the world.   
  
In the frigid depths, something had changed inside of her. A caged predator had been let loose upon the world—all-consuming power burning deep within Nesta.

Cassian’s mother only smiled; her mission accomplished. She had given Nesta a reason to fight. Her spirit faded away.

Inky black waters began to churn; colors shifting from iron, to steel, to white before the whole world erupted into the chaos of a blinding light.  Water flew everywhere, flooding out into surrounding forest. When the curtain of water finally drew back… Nesta Archeron stood in the middle of an emptied lake.

Cassian had been thrown back, his quick reactions only just saving him from the slaughter of Nesta’s raw power. A red shield was thrown up at the last minute.   
  
As calm settled over the valley, Cassian rushed to Nesta without thinking. His mind was consumed with her name. She was alive. She was breathing. She was there.   
  
He could never atone for the sin he had done to her… But he would spend an eternity trying to.   
  
Cassian reached out to grab onto her, but was met with a vicious snarl as she tried to step back—fumbling over wet wings. Nesta trembled with undiluted rage; his betrayal having broken any bridge of understanding the two had created.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Nesta barked. Her words cut deep and true as the harpy seethed out. “I am not your damsel to save, Cassian. I am not your mate, I am not your wife, I am not your anything. I am Nesta Archeron and I am my own fucking person,” she ground out quietly, hardened eyes boring down on the Illyrian Commander,  “Never again. Never fucking again.”  
  
There was no fighting her… No arguing against her statements.   
Cassian had caused this.   
And he did not deserve her forgiveness


	5. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta runs away after a life-altering encounter.

Cassian had turned his back to her.   
His second mistake for the night.  
But how could he have known? How could he have known that Nesta was not alone in her mind?

The surge of power had rippled across the land. Its message far more reaching than the uprooted trees and muddy trenches of what once used to be a lake. Beneath the cold waters, Death had awoken again. Its smiles was cold as it encompassed its hostess’ heart. Death nurtured her rage, whispering love nothings into an ear that longed for the dead. ‘ _Kill for me and I’ll bring you your mate,’_ the voice crooned, bargaining with Nesta.

It played to the chink in her armor. Death needled its way through the flaw, blinding the female, _‘The Illyrian female was wrong. Andras is your mate. He’s yours. And you need to claim him. Obey me, give in to me, and I’ll give you the union you crave. My cunning vixen, my Goddess of Death.’_ Remnant vespers of the Cauldron worked its clawed fingers into Nesta’s mind, painting a picture far lovelier than anything her sister could have constructed:

_A summer’s dawn rising as it haloed foreign mountain tops in gilded splendor. The wind caressing her cheeks before tangling its fingers in her hair in welcome to its pilgrim child.  She’d part her lips, drinking in the sweet taste of adventure. Eyes would devour the untouched wonder of the wooded wildlands—her curious mind aching to discover a world absent of courts and lords and ladies. She would smile and tip her head back in exultation—wings spread triumphantly as peels of laughter ringing out, cutting through the silence gleefully._

_And there he would be. Next to her, smiling—welcoming the unexpected. He would reach for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers._

_They would walk down into the unknown together.  
Andras and her, mated, in love, and inseparable.   _

This future was dangled in front of her; a teasing bait for the predatory female to pounce on.   
Death knew what it was doing.  
Death offered the simple gift of hope.

Optimists liked to fancy hope with something _good_ and _wonderful_. Hope stirred hearts into action—it gave ambition and strength to carry on. Hope could rally forces together to strike down an evil king—and it could give that gentle nudge for a friendship to wade into the deep waters of love.

What the world forgot was that hope could be a dangerous thing. It had the ability to start a wildfire with just a spark. Hope could be the trigger to set off a series of cataclysmic events…  
  
Death knew what it was doing.  
_Start with the Commander. Kill him. Kill him and I’ll let you speak to your mate again._  
It sat back and watched with a devilish smile while Nesta was let loose upon the world.   
  
She became a volcanic terror: waves of power lashing out against the Illyrian male who had his back to her.  

Her eruption had been building for twenty-two years. Layers of molten anger becoming ever more vicious under duress. For years, she watched in anguished silence; emotions walled up behind a cruel façade.   
  
Now she was released upon the world. A wrathful Fury driven by a force only she could see and hear. A possession that promised her the world.

Cassian fell to the ground. The Lord of Bloodshed hit his knees, a deafening roar filling her ears while the blast of white tried to rip apart his wings. Red shields went up in time to save the appendages from annihilation. He pivoted, turning to see who it was that had sprung the attack on Nesta and him.

Centuries of bloodshed and war had not prepared him for this… For seeing the female he _loved with every godsdamned fiber of his being_ with the feral lethalness of murder in her eyes. Nesta was not angry. She was not throwing a tantrum at his antics… She was poised to _kill_ him.

“Nesta, don’t!” he tried to reason, guard up, “What are you doing?!”

The hellcat was upon him; launching herself at the hardened body of the commander. They grappled together; a blur of wings, fighting leathers, and limbs. Nesta clawed and fought for any opening to maim and wound Cassian.   
  
He deflected. The warrior battled with the pieces of his heart that were being ravaged as Nesta tried over and over again to end him. She was untrained, reckless in combat. Easily, he could cut her down. If It weren’t for his soul— a soul that belonged to Nesta. Whether she wanted it or not, he had fallen for her. And would spend every day of his life reconciling for his short-comings.   
  
_Find the opening,_ Death seethed, clenching tighter around her heart; throwing the image of Andras’ fading face in her mindseye.  
  
It served its purpose—she screamed her frustration, that force within her exploding and launching another dagger of pure power at the male. It landed true, digging deep into his shoulder. The dagger faded away and Cassian struggled to breath beneath the force of the blow. Blood poured out over his leathers, a pool gathering beneath him.   
  
Cassian looked up to her, silver lining his eyes while a tear trailed down his cheek—giving in to Nesta. Never would he raise a hand against her… If his life was what she demanded as payment, then… So be it.

 _Excellent, my Goddess,_ the voice praised, releasing its hold on her, _But it’s time for you to run. They’re coming_.   
  
Reality came crashing down upon Nesta as she blinked. Her legs straddled Cassian and… Blood coated her hands. Not just blood. His blood. His hands were around her wrists as he was yelling at her. A wild, desperate look in his eye.

Her ears could finally process what it was he was shouting, “Nesta, come back to me. This isn’t you—this isn’t you. I love you, Cauldron Boil Me, I love you. Come back to me!!”  
  
“C-Cassian?” she strangled out a whisper, horrified as pieces of memory were stitched back together. She had done this. It had been her fault, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to.” Her hands covered his wound, but blood still leaked over her fingers. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise—someone was winnowing in. Rhysand? Feyre? Mor?  
  
_Run,_ the voice grated, _they catch you. You’re found to be a traitor to the Court. You’ll die. You’ll never see Andras. Do you not love your mate? Do you not want to be with him?_

Her silence was answer enough.

_Then run._

Apologies stammered from her lips as she looked down to Cassian. “I had to do it,” she offered weakly, face blanched white as she backed away from him—watching as he tried to get up, tried to come after her, “I have to go. I _have_ to get him back.”   
  
From the other side of the lake, she saw Rhysand and Morrigan appear.   
_Run._

The Illyrian took off—long, sleek legs carrying her deep into the woods. She did not stop. She kept running, and running, and running. Her lungs burned in pain—but still, she did not stop. They would catch her. They would find her. They would kill her. Andras would be forever lost to limbo.

Branches and thorns snagged and snarled in her hair and clothes, cutting at the tender membranes of her wings that had been clamped down tightly to her back. It was only when the light of dawn broke over the horizon and she found the safety of a cave did Nesta stop.  
  
The female collapsed into an exhausted lump on the cold, hard ground. Tremors shook her body as Nesta had to relive what she had done. It was as if a fog was lifted from her eyes and she could see clearly. She retched upon the earth, drawing her knees up to her chest while her mind went rogue with self-loathing.  
  
Nesta often wondered if she was the villain.   
The wicked one that she read so often about in her novels… The antagonist that corrupted and defiled those that were good and just. Like Feyre. Like Cassian. Like Andras.   
  
How was she not to blame for his death?   
If it had not been for her stubbornness, her pride, her wicked temper… Feyre would not have been the one to become huntress and provider. Feyre would never have entered those frozen woods and shot that fateful arrow into the Fae-turned-wolf.

Nesta had wondered if she was the villain.  
Tonight proved that she was.

 _Rest tonight, my sweet,_ Death cooed to Nesta, her eyes glazing with the communication, _Tomorrow we start our journey. For when you wake, you’ll build my army._


End file.
